She stores she drinks in mason jars,
And bottles up her hopes.
Perhaps sometime she'll sup from them,
Swallowing stars as they burst
Like soap bubbles on her lips.
They'll coat her tongue in a thick swath of anti-sound
And full on gravity.
Weighing her like gold and silver shackles
Slickened with rainbow bands of grease.
Pretty adornment.
Pretty little gilded cage.
Her hair so vibrant as a cormorant's wing-
She'll wrap it up and pull it hard,
Twisting and turning until all that's left
Is a blackened stump where wings use to fall.
Sometimes it will rain and all her dreams will come true.
Tiny things, misplacing her socks
Only for her to find them again behind the T.V stand.
All her hoping will be for nothing,
Because they watch her-
He watches her-
By and by she'll realize,
Although perhaps not until the stars above are torn asunder,
Imprinted lives wash away as easily as India ink-
If they ever do at all.
Just a little poem for you all :)